They called him a man of precision.
Roman Ashborne never missed a deadline. Never raised his voice. Never let his suits wrinkle or his shoes scuff. His office ran like a machine — silent, efficient, exact. The men beneath him feared him. The women watched him. But no one knew him.
Because while they moved numbers and signed contracts, his mind stayed elsewhere.
On her.
At 9:05AM, he approved a $3.2 million acquisition. At 9:07, he imagined her brushing her teeth. Bent slightly over the sink, hair tied back, skin bare at the shoulder.
At 11:30, his board discussed investment in northern infrastructure.
At 11:32, he wondered if she'd chosen the sweater that hugged her waist or the one that didn't.
By 1:00PM, he'd signed five contracts, ignored seventeen calls, and memorized every angle of the latest footage his team had sent him — Serene stepping out of a tram with her headphones in. Coat unbuttoned. Fingers gripping a bag of groceries.
She didn't know how beautiful she was when she was busy.
He watched the clip three more times.
By 3:00PM, he was supposed to meet a politician about land permits.
He rescheduled. Again.
Because at 4:15PM, she usually left her second job — and he wanted to drive by, just once.
The car was already waiting outside the café. Windows tinted. Engine quiet. His driver didn't speak anymore, not after the last time Roman had caught him looking. Lelo's drawing of the man had ended up in flames. Roman never asked why. He didn't need to.
At 4:17PM, there she was.
Backpack slung over one shoulder, exhaustion softening her walk. She paused outside the café to adjust her bag. The wind caught her scarf, pulling it slightly loose.
He watched the skin of her neck appear, pulse fluttering like a secret invitation.
He didn't blink.
When she vanished into the tram crowd, he stayed parked for five more minutes, eyes half-closed. Savoring.
At 5:00PM, he arrived home.
But he didn't go inside.
Not his home.
Hers.
He knew the building's patterns now. The gaps in security. The cleaning staff rotations. The broken camera by the stairwell. Her roommate's sloppy habit of forgetting to bolt the back balcony.
Tonight was quiet. Rain smoothed the city into silence.
He wore gloves.
No rush.
He didn't need to sneak. He belonged here, even if she didn't know it yet.
The key — copied during her visit to the university registrar — turned without hesitation. The hallway greeted him like it missed him.
He stepped inside.
Paused.
Inhaled.
There. Her scent. Fabric softener and something floral. Her life.
He walked through the space slowly, memorizing the placement of her shoes, her books, her favorite cup left on the window sill. Then he turned to the bathroom door and watched it.
Waited.
She would be home soon.
And tonight, he didn't plan to leave until he'd seen every inch of what she tried to hide.
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